The Fall
by Morgause1
Summary: Melkor fell into the abyss of evil and Mairon fell with him, locked in his embrace. Beware, Angbang ahead!
1. Fealty

Mairon did not submit so easily.

Melkor spent ages following the fierce, adamantine Maia, who was so proud of his calling and skill. Secretly he courted him, weaving his delicate traps around him: a whisper here, a meaningful look there, all artfully designed to pick at his wounds and widen them. The little things that tarnish a bright soul, like smoke mingling in the flame of a candle.

And what a soul he had! Never had Melkor seen such power, such skill, and such strength of will. A true idealist, bound in his Music-dream of creation and order. Melkor lusted after that soul: Mairon had to belong to him, to work for greater causes than the trifle matters the Valar set him to. He hated to see such magnificent potential going to waste.

He defied him at first, of course. That much was to be expected of such a loyal follower of Aulë. But as time passed and the pressure he put on him grew, his resistance changed. What was at first cold but respectful disregard turned into anger and rash, fearful words. Lately, Mairon had even attempted violence. The Vala simply laughed and brushed him aside – violence didn't scare him. He invented it. Secretly he was glad – it meant that Mairon was becoming desperate at last. The webs were tightening, and his prey knew it.

And now he stood there before him, flame-red hair whipping in the bitter winds of the mountain top, the fire in his veins and sunken eyes only barely contained. He finally came to him – nay, he **ran** to him. Of misery he spoke to him, of desires frustrated in the Valar's austere and abnegating world. The love for the products of his work, scorned as greed, turned sour in his mouth and was replaced by fury and distrust. He craved freedom in a world where there was none.

There was no one else he could talk to of these things, he gritted through clenched teeth. His fellow Maiar refused to acknowledge his words when he tried to tell them. Aulë had chastised him, causing him to flee. He knew Melkor was evil. He knew he destroyed their work again and again, bringing sorrow and loss. But to Mairon's horror, he was the only one who understood him.

"There is only one way to end this torment," the Vala spoke, his velvet-soft voice carrying distinctly above the shrieking of the wind. "Reject Aulë and pledge your loyalty to me."

The Maia looked appalled. "It is as I feared. You only wish for me to become your slave instead of his, Trickster." He wrapped his arms about himself and stood shivering. "Why am I even here?"

"Do you deny the nature of your kind, to desire to serve spirits more powerful than you are?"

Mairon stared at the pillar of darkness towering above him, pinning him down with ice-cold eyes that made his skin crawl. The Vala was radiating so much raw power, rolling off of him in unclean waves, engulfing him completely. But there was more about him – something dark and sensual like mud, like the abyss that came before Arda. Contrast, Mairon thought with a frightened thrill. He can smash this pitiful pale world and build it anew.

"I do not," he gulped.

"Good. You are here because you're not stupid: you want more than whatever scraps you are given. You are not powerful enough to get it by yourself, and I'm the only one who can give it to you, should you choose to serve me. But not all servitude is slavery, and not all followers are mistreated, as are you. Serving me, you will finally be free."

"How does that even make sense? Surly you take me for a fool, or are a fool yourself."

Melkor kept his rising ire under control. The haughty, insolent Maia still needed to be drawn in.

"You are but stalling the inevitable, Mairon" he said with whatever patience he could muster. "You know that no one else will offer you what I do. They're content to diminish themselves and cower in the dirt like worms. Do you really wish to count yourself among them, you, who are capable of so much more?"

A cloud of uncertainty seemed to pass Mairon and he wavered, so Melkor pressed in where it hurt most.

"And, of course," he smiled, slowly and cruelly. "You are here because you want me."

"Want you?!" The Maia cried, his beautiful, stern face twisting in anguish.

"Yes, you crave me. You are drawn towards me, don't think I hadn't noticed. This stony mask you wear might be able to fool others, but not me. Never me."

A thousand emotions played across the Maia's face. Fury turned to horror, then disgust, then shame. He took a step back and seemed about to bolt. Melkor rued himself for acting openly too quickly – perhaps his prey required some more gentle prodding before the trap snapped? But then the turmoil coalesced into a single expression: an overwhelming yearning.

"I am not supposed to want you," he muttered, as if to himself.

"Desire knows no rules. Now swear to me."

"Why can't I love Aulë, like I should? I must truly be wicked, as they say."

" **Swear**!"

The growled command had worked its effect. Before Melkor's amazed eyes, the Maia fell to his knees amid the rocks.

"I renounce Aulë," he whispered hoarsely. "And swear to serve and obey you. Please accept my fealty, Lord." He turned away and screwed his eyes shut as if in pain.

Silence. The wind stopped howling and the whole world stilled.

Melkor basked in the glorious sight: Mairon the Admirable, chief of the Maiar of Aulë's forge, finally bowing down and offering himself to him. The Maia twitched uncomfortably in the strange, lengthening silence but otherwise remained perfectly still. Sweat broke on his forehead.

The Vala glided towards him, cloak black as tar fluttering in the wind. He rested his hand on Mairon's head for a moment, as in a benediction, and then lifted his face towards him. The new-found fragility in the Maia's eyes made him want to howl in triumph.

"I accept."

Melkor crashed on him like an avalanche, lifting him effortlessly and bruising his mouth in what might have been a kiss. Mairon reciprocated eagerly, entangling his hands in the Vala's thick midnight hair. Abruptly, Melkor stopped the kiss.

"Enough." he stated to the confused, panting Maia. "You have much to learn yet: about this world, about yourself, about your senses. You must get rid of the teachings of the Valar in order to see clearly."

"What… what will you have me do?"

"Strip," he said, and Mairon obeyed. Melkor eyed him appreciatively. He really was remarkable.

"I want you to run. I want you to touch everything, smell and taste everything. Fair or foul, it's part of the world you are about to shape."

And so Mairon ran, and Melkor ran with him like a thunderstorm rolling down the slopes of the mountain. Mairon was ecstatic: the heat in his limbs, heaving breath, frantic pumping of his heart – he never felt anything like that before, even when he worked hours on end to create the most beautiful trinkets to decorate Arda. His corporeal body finally felt alive. He chased and killed a deer with his bare hands, and ate it raw. He cut himself on hard rocks and rolled in soft beds of moss, letting himself feel both with every nerve ending in his tingling body. He shouted as he ran and laughed and cried heedlessly of his surroundings, rejoicing in the ground shaking underneath his feet. And when he couldn't run anymore, Melkor buried him beneath his body.

He taught him pain, searing and agonizing, and a pleasure so intense he could do nothing but scream as it broke over him. After a while, Melkor rose to his knees to peer over his new servant's prostrate form, all covered in blood and dirt and sticky bodily fluids.

"This is how it's supposed to be," he whispered, drawing sigils with his finger all over Mairon's body. The sigils shimmered like frost for a moment and then sunk into his skin. "Not the Valar's pretty, porcelain love, mocking the flesh. This is perfection, unclean and poignant and real. You will never be able to be free if you won't accept this."

"Teach me more," the Maia begged.

"I will," he answered, standing up. "But now it's time for your first task."

The Maia turned his hot gaze towards him, irises like molten gold rings. "I am ready, my Lord."

"Good. Your first task is to return to Aulë and beg for his forgiveness."

"My Lord?!"

The expression of horror on Mairon's face was almost comical. Melkor smirked.

"Return to Almaren. Say that you've been thinking long and hard of what you said and you are so, so sorry. Be humble and sweet. Aulë will accept you back. And once you're there…" Melkor smiled like a knife, "I will tell you what to do."


	2. Damaged

Nobody knew how Melkor could destroy Almaren so quickly and so utterly. It seemed almost as if he knew all its secrets, all its weaknesses, every spot that was least fortified. In the chaos and darkness that ensued, many tongues began whispering one word: traitor.

There was much work to be done, of course, and the household of Aulë worked ceaselessly to repair the damage and build the Ainur's new home: the land of Valinor in Aman.

Mairon worked zealously, as all the rest. He was much better now. Only a short while ago he was gaunt, his cheeks hollow and his red-rimmed eyes sunk by lack of sleep. He was isolating himself, constantly muttering under his breath, sometimes weeping. When approached by others, he spoke as one fey.

It all changed after he ran off and later came back, calmer and more reasonable. Too much stress, Aulë thought regretfully, and smiled when he saw how Mairon had improved: his hair, which hung lifeless in his braid, was now lustrous and coiled like living snakes about his head. He was brimming with energy and cheer, and his eyes glowed like fire. He was much more sociable now, too, taking part in everything that took place around him. Aulë was pleased, and if Mairon was perhaps a tad more nosey than was required or tended to disappear for short whiles every now and again, he did not notice.

Mairon was just returning from one of his short absences when he felt eyes staring at him from the shadow of a column. Even at that distance he could feel their reproach and mistrust. Just as he thought: a lesser Maia, gray-robed and bright eyed, one of Manwë's folk. He spotted him around him a bit too many times lately, always far enough not to be immediately noticed. Battling a sense of guilt, Mairon got angry. He strode toward the Maia and hulked above him, clenched fists shooting sparks.

"Do we have a problem, Olórin?"

"Peace, brother," the Maia said, spreading his hands.

"Peace goes both ways. Stop following me. If I'll have to tell you this again, you will be sorry." He turned and marched away, barely hearing Olórin's breath catch. The fool was afraid of him. Good.

But he was still troubled. As he walked, Mairon pondered. If Olórin suspected him, as now seemed likely, others might as well. What will the Valar do if they discovered that Aulë's chief craftsman was aiding their Enemy? Mairon shuddered at the thought. It might be prudent to leave here soon.

Certainly he couldn't stop. Even if he had not sworn an oath – his Lord taught him many deep things, mysteries he wasn't even aware of the existence of, fueling his desire. As they walked slowly over the wind-swept moors under darting clouds, just outside of Valinor, he told him of change: of reshaping things into more befitting forms. Of blood and bone he spoke, and of the structure of matter, of fusing and splitting the core of existence. Everything could be turned into a tool, wielded, ruled by those who had enough willpower. Mairon was astonished. No one else seemed to know these things. Except, perhaps, Varda, and she did not share her secrets.

The earth was blackening beneath Melkor's feet, rotting and dying, but Mairon didn't notice. He was looking up at Melkor's hands, which moved as he spoke, conjuring bright sights of the future he planned. The wind blew a strand of the Vala's long, inky hair into his face and he shuddered, closing his eyes. When he opened them, the Vala was looking down at him with a crooked smile.

"I love you," the Maia whispered, trapped in the icy depths of Melkor's eyes, chilled to his very core. "I will do anything for you."

Melkor's smile was as bright as a supernova. Mairon was engulfed by destructive waves of heat and light as Melkor drew him close.

"It pleases me very much."

And Mairon could not be happier.


	3. Broken

"Do you love me, Mairon?"

The Vala's voice was as soft as velvet and rich with promise. The red-headed Maia, kneeling before the iron throne, licked his suddenly dry lips. "More than anything, my Lord."

"Then prove it to me. Do it."

"But, my Lord …"

"If you wish to serve me, you will do so on my terms. Do it. Now."

The Maia shuddered and turned his attention to the creature bound and suspended upside down from the high ceiling before him. It was an Elf, a beautiful, innocent being, caught while wandering the star-lit hills of the East. The Elf wept and pleaded with him in his musical language, blood already dripping from his brow where the hunter-monster struck him and into his long, blond hair. A table nearby held the Maia's new tools: knives and whips, dark fires and poison. Mairon never tortured anyone before. The thought appalled him, but the Vala's seductive voice awoke some deep, shameful fascination inside of him. Reluctantly, he picked up a skinning knife, razor-sharp and inlaid with spells of pain and terror. The Elf screamed and began fighting in earnest, swinging like some deranged pendulum. He took ahold of one gleaming foot and began to cut.

Mairon knelt on the floor, panting, covered in blood and gore. He did not know how long it had been until his master was finally satisfied. The shrieks of the mutilated Elf subsided now into bestial, savage, and hateful growls. The underground hall was filled with noise and echoes, but he could still hear the heavy thud of armored boots on the stone floor. He waited nervously while his master inspected his handiwork, much like Aulë used to do at the forges of Valinor. The thought of his old master lingered for a second in his mind, and then fled with a sharp tang. He could never go back now. He's stepped too far.

Sharp-nailed fingers lifted his chin to gaze into the most beautiful face he had ever seen. He could do nothing but stare helplessly, a moth caught in a forest fire.

"You have done well, little Maia. Why are you crying?"

"This was not in the Music, my Lord. The Elf was innocent and full of light, and –"

"And weak," his master cut in. "You've improved it. It can no longer feel any pain, or fear, or sadness. Look at it!" the hand turned his face abruptly toward the slobbering wretch that tried to bite the servants who came to take it away. Mairon winced, and then melted as the hand began caressingly undoing his braid.

"It has a purpose now," the Vala whispered. "It will serve me, just like you do: a perfect tool to bring order and justice to Arda. Isn't that what you wanted? Isn't that why you came to me?"

"Yes," Mairon breathed, succumbing to the pleasure.

It took time until Mairon finally lost his name. Gorthaur the Cruel he was called and Sauron, the Abhorred. He served his master faithfully, deceiving others who were not as clever and malicious as he was. He never felt broken: he was made whole, strong and perfect, by the shaping hands of Melkor. And if he were filled with hate and forever lost his fair appearance – what of it? Sacrifices are necessary to achieve glory. And Mairon always did want to excel.


	4. Punishment

The hands that grabbed him at the gate threw him down into the shadows before the throne. Mairon pressed his forehead to the stony floor at Melkor's feet and shivered uncontrollably.

"So, my trusty Lieutenant has finally graced us with his presence." The beloved voice held unbearable spite. "How long has it been, Mairon? A year? **Speak**!"

"I've failed you, Lord. I am ashamed."

The armored figure on the throne was silent, but Mairon could feel the seething waves of wrath and cruelty emanating from him. There was nothing he could do to placate him. He will never be forgiven. How could he be so stupid? How could he, always so careful and calculating, have made so many mistakes, one after another?

"Take him to the dungeons," the Vala's voice sounded in his ears as two Orc guards grabbed and lifted him between them. "Don't damage him too severely." He bared his teeth in what might have been a smile. "Leave that part to me."

Hours later, Mairon stood naked at the center of a cell, drenched in sweat and bleeding extensively from many wounds, some of his bones broken. He was not bound – Melkor did not need ropes or chains. He commanded Mairon to stand, and the Maia couldn't have moved even if he wanted to, enveloped by the sheer power of that command. Melkor circled him slowly, measuring him up with a baleful glare.

"You see, there's an art to torturing Maiar. As they are not as attached to their corporeal bodies as the Children are, one must also target their souls to achieve full effect…" he said didactically, enjoying the way the Maia's body crumpled into itself. "Tell me again what happened."

Mairon already told him everything, every shameful little detail, more times than he could count, and each time it felt worse. He worked his parched lips enough to rasp out.

"I underestimated the enemy. I wasn't prepared, and I was caught. I… surrendered. And then I ran."

"You surrendered, and you ran…" Melkor intoned, his voice like a shower of icy arrows, peeling off his skin. Humiliation flowed through Mairon, hurting more than any of the burns and slashes across his body.

"I am so, so sorry, my Lord," he whimpered. "They were about to kill me. I panicked."

"So you put your own interests ahead of mine?"

"I only wished to be able to serve you again in the future, Master…"

"A pathetic excuse, fit only for a worthless maggot. I told you never to lie to me, Mairon." Melkor extended one sharp-nailed finger to gently trace his nipple. Mairon shrieked in agony. When at last he stopped shuddering, Melkor continued.

"I understand that you were too afraid to come back. Justly so, too. What I don't understand is, why come back a year later? Did you think, perhaps, that my wrath had subsided by now?"

"No, Master."

"So you've returned just for the sake of getting torn limb from limb?"

Mairon was silent for a spell, fighting with himself. "I tried to run away from you, but I couldn't stand being without you," he whispered at last. "It was more than I could bear. I rather be tormented by your own hand."

"Is that so?"

"Oh, you are so much worse than anyone else, Lord." Mairon lifted his face to Melkor and smiled crookedly, his mouth full of blood and broken teeth. His eyes burned insanely in the shadows. "But if you care enough to do this yourself… maybe that means I still have a chance for redemption."

The Vala's terrible laughter filled the chamber, echoing and reechoing from the stone walls. Mairon wanted to stop his ears, but couldn't lift his hands. A blinding wave of pain engulfed him, and at last he fainted.

Mairon didn't know how long the torture lasted – months, years perhaps. All he knew was that at one point the pain was gone, and so was his master. Could he have forgiven him? Or maybe just lost interest and turned to play with other toys? Mairon couldn't tell.

When his wounds healed, an Orc appeared in the cell.

"Master says you are to clean yourself and report to the throne room for trial." he said.

Bathed and dressed properly, Mairon hesitated at the open doors of the throne room. Melkor looked at him with a raised brow. Embarrassed, he entered, feeling the eyes of the entire hall fixed on him.

"Come here."

He approached, carefully averting his eyes from the overpowering presence of the Vala. He knelt, bowing his head low. He was trying to control his panting, certain that the Vala could hear his heart hammering frantically in his chest – he could never hide anything from him.

"Mairon," Melkor proclaimed. "You are accused of high treason. You have confessed. The penalty for such an offence is death."

The crowd filling the throne room murmured, some cried out. Mairon could not utter a word.

"But, I don't question your loyalty to me, and seeing as you were always so very useful," the Vala continued, tapping an iron-gloved finger against his lips. "It seems rather wasteful to kill you just yet. You'll live – for now. Instead, this shall be your punishment: you are demoted, Mairon. You are no longer my Lieutenant. You will be sent to toil in the mines with the rest of the slaves."

The Maia willed his clenched stomach to relax. This was better than he had expected.

"Thank you, my Lord," he whispered, daring at last to lift his head. Was there a glimmer of gentleness in the shadows of that terrible face that even the Silmarils could not brighten? Very unlikely.

A messenger came to him that night, as he huddled on the cold stone floor of the dungeon, and he was led to the Vala's chambers.

Melkor took him to his bed, and for the first time in years, Mairon felt warm again. Just on the verge of sleep, Mairon heard the deep hum of Melkor's voice.

"You will work hard to regain my trust. And maybe, if you please me well enough… I might reconsider your status."

"I will not fail you again," he whispered, lifting his head from the Vala's broad chest.

"You better not. Now hush: you have a very, very difficult day ahead of you."

Maybe redemption was indeed possible.


	5. Void

**Void**

The fight was terrible. The Host of the Valar advanced continuously, slaying everyone who stood in their path. They killed the Balrogs. They cast the dragons from the sky. They ruined the kingdom and wreaked havoc in all his Lord had so carefully built. And then at last, when Thangorodrim itself fell, his Lord strode out to battle.

At his side, Mairon thought back to his first battle. He stood then before the closed gates, clad in armor that fitted the monstrous form he took. A mace was clutched in his hands, a little uncertainly. He was trying to breathe evenly and calm his heart to a manageable beat. Suddenly he felt a large, iron-clad hand land on his shoulder, and looked up. Melkor's face was hidden behind the crowned helmet he wore, but his eyes glittered gleefully, like jewels.

"We will crush them, Lieutenant." He said with a smile in his voice. And then the gates opened and he was out in the field. He felt the Vala's will drive him, just as it drove the hosts of his Orcs.

His first kill was a tall Elvish warrior. Mairon remembered with crystalline clearness the light in his eyes extinguish as the mace caught him on the side of the face, splitting bone. It became easier afterwards, and then even fun: the lesser creatures didn't stand a chance against him. In a haze of bloodlust he turned to watch Melkor, who was laying about him with Grond. Lightning struck where the massive hammer landed, creating craters. His enemies were ground to mere dust beneath his feet. The Vala was laughing manically, like thunder, and he continued to laugh even as the fight was won and he was back at the keep, licking the enemy's blood off Mairon's face as he undressed him.

He wasn't laughing now. The fighting was much, much harder, but Mairon couldn't tear his eyes away from his Lord. Tall and terrible to behold, he was clad in the armor Mairon made for him, his beautiful, scarred face hidden from view. Raw power erupted from him as he swung Grond, but it wasn't enough. Somehow, this time, it wasn't enough. The ranks of Maiar, Elves, and Men just kept on coming.

The ground was torn from underneath his feet and Mairon fell. Something else was headed their way, distorting his senses and weakening the facilitating force of Melkor's will on him. The Orcs and other fell beasts wavered, frightened, while their enemies grew in zeal and strength. He felt a panic rising in him as he understood.

The Valar were coming. All of them.

Oh no. No. No. No .

Mairon called for his werewolves and fought in earnest to reach Melkor, but couldn't. An invisible wall was slowing him, holding him back. Confused, he realized that it was Melkor's own power stalling him. What?

"Master!" he screamed, begging him to let him through, to let him help, but the Vala paid him no heed.

When the Valar came, every living creature around Melkor, friend or foe, died all at once. A terrifying crash was heard and Grond was shattered. Melkor was surrounded by enemies who bore down on him like a pack of hungry dogs.

No!

Squinting past the unbearable light of the Valar, Mairon caught Melkor's eyes just as the helmet was torn from his head and trampled down, releasing his black hair to fly in the wind. And then he heard his voice inside his head.

"Run."

The whole world stilled. Mairon watched helplessly as his Lord, bound and collared, was forced to his knees. He saw Mandos's lips move, proclaiming his doom, but couldn't hear a thing above the thin ringing in his ears. He saw Tulkas swing a mighty sword. When Melkor's head rolled in the bloodied mud and Varda opened a portal to the Void, Mairon's hearing returned into a tempest of the cheers of the Host and his own horrified shrieks.

Melkor went into the Void laughing and cursing.

He was gone.

Sick to the core, Mairon ran.


	6. Mercy

"He made me do it."

Eönwë looked at Morgoth's Lieutenant standing before him, all fiery silken curls and ivory skin, so different than the terrible form he took upon the battlefield, and scoffed. "Is this the best excuse you can come up with, Sauron?"

The Maia's eyed widened momentarily at the derogatory name, but he let it pass.

"This is no excuse, this is the truth. You know just how powerful he is. He overran me completely."

"You **chose** to serve him. You chose to leave us and side with him. And now you must pay for that choice."

"I had no choice in this, just like you don't have any choice but to serve Manwë -"

"My Lord Manwë is the greatest and most noble spirit in Eä!" Eönwë interrupted. "I serve him because I want to."

"Of course you do. But tell me: were you to disagree with him, could you disobey him?"

"I never disagree with him."

The Maia just stared at him. Suddenly Eönwë felt awkward.

"What I mean is, I have complete trust in him and his judgment. He has a much greater understanding of our Creator's will than I, a mere Maia, have. And even so, he is still just and kind."

Mairon lifted an eyebrow. "Of course. Who needs to think when you have Manwë? As you say, free choice is a wonderful thing."

"This is not what I meant…" Eönwë was getting truly irritated. "This is but the rebellion of Morgoth speaking from your mouth. You let him befog your mind with cheap tricks and now speak exactly like him. How could you let this happen to you, Mairon? You should have held on against the darkness like I did. Like I still do."

"Yes, you are great and powerful, Eönwë. Much as I was in the beginning. But if Melkor decided that Eönwë was to be singled out as his prey, and not Mairon, how long do you think you would have lasted under that terrible onslaught?"

"I would have told my Lord Manwë. He would have helped me, like he helped all others who came to him."

"Really?" for a moment Mairon looked truly puzzled, and then wistfulness came upon him. "Then you are lucky indeed. Aulë, he... he was not so understanding."

"You do him an injustice, Mairon. Lord Aulë loved you. He wept when you were gone."

"I'm sure he did. He was deprived of another pair of nameless hands working for him."

"Nonsense! But I forget who I am talking to. You obviously know nothing about love, Mairon: you never loved anything but the brilliance of your own handiwork. That's why you tried to remove every trace of real love from the face of Arda."

"I love Melkor," Mairon whispered, his face pale in the candlelight. "I love him with all my soul and I mourn his loss."

"Oh. Is that why you came to me? Do you want me to bring him back or something? Because obviously I wouldn't, even if I could."

"I know. That's not why I came."

"Why, then?"

"I wanted to set things straight between myself and your side, to finish this whole business." Mairon spoke with an uncharacteristic hesitance. "Maybe now, when he's gone, I can be free. Maybe I'll manage to start over, and in time, even do some good. You must help me!" suddenly he reached and grabbed Eönwë by the sleeve, tugging desperately. Eönwë made no move to brush him off. "You must pardon and free me, brother, so I'll have a chance to redeem myself."

Eönwë was silent for a long time, pondering. Mairon seemed honest enough. His tough, sleek exterior cracked, and a faint light was glinting through.

"I will help you, brother," he said at last, and Mairon lifted his head abruptly, his eyes filling with hope. "But I can't free you. I will take you before the Valar and vouch for your earnestness."

"No! No!" Mairon cried, his face contorting in fear and anguish. "Don't do this. They will not understand. They are crueler than you were led to believe, and I've felt that on my own skin more than once. You are a Maia, too, Eönwë. I trust you. I came to you, not to them."

"Nevertheless, this is my final decision." said Eönwë. "I must leave now to take counsel with my Lord, but I shall come back for you soon. Rest, and fear not! None will do you any harm." He stopped at the entrance and let the silken flap of the tent hang in his hand for a moment before dropping it. Mairon stood at the center of the tent, his face bleached of all color. He looked so alone, so broken, that Eönwë's heart ached.

It was a mistake going to them, Mairon thought bitterly as he snuck out of the tent as a lonesome, chill wind. He wanted freedom, and that, as Melkor once said, did not exist in the world of the Valar. He will have to make it on his own.


	7. Wastelands

Alone. No Maia should be alone.

Mairon wandered the waste, shrouded, mourning his loss. He rarely ate. He slept where he fell. Sometimes, he dreamt.

The cold and angry stars disappeared, and in the utter blackness a voice was heard, soft and warm as fur, cold and lonesome as a grave.

"Mairon…" it whispered, and the Maia was filled with such yearning that for a moment he couldn't answer past the lump in his throat.

"Master? Is that you?"

"I'm here, Mairon."

"That's not true," he said bitterly. "I saw you die. You are gone."

The darkness seemed to solidify around him. Mairon felt tears running down his face.

"I'm never gone," came a whisper. "Look around you: Arda bears my marks, my essence in its very structure. I'll never truly leave while Eä stands. Therefore you must continue my work, Mairon. Gather my armies and regain control of this world. It needs your guidance."

"How can I do that, alone? I am not half as powerful as you are."

"You have many gifts, little Maia, and you can be very persuasive when you set your mind to it." The voice chuckled softly into his ear. "Goodbye, my precious."

"Melkor! Master! Don't go!"

Mairon was awakened, feeling on his face the ghost of a caress by wild, glimmering black hair. Melkor's smell lingered for a moment in the cool air: a heady musk of ozone, smoke, and rot. Mairon breathed deep, refusing to let go.

In the next morning, Mairon set out towards Eregion.


	8. Númenor

Standing on the raised altar at the former Hallow of Eru on Meneltarma, now dubbed the Temple of Melkor, Mairon surveyed the multitudes that came to pray at his bidding. They were mindless now, lost in a pandemonium of terror and greed that his Ring, ever the lens of his malice, created.

"…And now you must pay for the sins of your forefathers, who have renounced the great Lord Melkor and all his gifts, naming him Morgoth in their ignorance and wickedness." He called, and the crowd cried in fear and remorse.

Mairon rolled up the sleeves of his bejeweled tunic and brandished a long blade that blazed in the roaring fires of the Pit. A beautiful angel with terrible eyes, he spread his arms wide and whispered.

"Come to me."

Men and women shoved each other to prostrate themselves at his feet. He butchered them one by one, decapitating them, disemboweling them, hacking off their limbs and casting the remains into the Pit. Mothers thrust their crying babies in his arms. He enjoyed that part the most.

Bathed head to toe in the blood of the Númenoreans, Mairon lifted his arms up.

"Accept the blood of your worshippers, O Melkor, one and only God!" he cried, his voice carrying throughout the Temple, all the way to the city below the mountain. "Bring unto them your blessing of Immortality!"

"Melkor! Melkor!" The crowd chanted ecstatically, like a heaving beast, drunk on death and blood. The cloud of smoke darkened the sky and the stench of burning human flesh was exquisite. Mairon closed his eyes, hoping that Melkor could see it from his prison: his enemies vanquished, set to punish themselves by themselves. How pleased he would have been with him. Oh, how he would have laughed.


	9. Death

Years of calculations, of preparing, of anxiously pacing his chamber at the top of Barad-dûr with his gaze strained on the lands surrounding it, came to a sudden, unbelievable end. His Ring, the better part of his power, was destroyed. The shockwaves ruined all he crawled back out of nothingness to build: his country, his armies, himself.

Flashes of wordless emotions: fury, need, regret, and lust, lost in the whirlpool of oblivion.

In the few moments of clearness left to him before he dissipated, hovering precariously between life and death, the proud Lord Sauron could finally **see**. As everything disappeared around him, he turned his Eye inwards and what he saw there would have hurt if it weren't for the immense pain of the wreck. Melkor promised him freedom, but there never was freedom in anything he did. The dark Vala caught him completely, in that ancient time beyond recall, like a black hole sucking in lesser, brighter stars, never to let them go. He was cast in the form of his master, his will molded to suit him entirely. The same trodden patterns of pleasure and pain, carved into his soul like a stream in the desert, doomed to repeat themselves again and again.

Melkor fell into the abyss of evil and Mairon fell with him, locked in his embrace. Nothing was left of the beautiful, shining Maia of old. Nothing remained but a spirit of malice that gnawed itself in the shadows, but could never again grow or take shape. Nothing remained but a whisper on the cold winds of the wastelands, one final hope for salvation.

 _Find me, Master, when you return to your world again. Find me._


	10. Epilogue

Drifting.

Feeble.

Thoughts don't stick, cold… so cold.

Shapes rush by, through, colorless.

…

…

Suddenly, a surge. Life returns for a fleeting moment, like a beating heart. I am. I am.

A crack follows, and the smell of ozone is overwhelming.

…

Something big is coming.


End file.
